


The First Annual Ethereal Entities Team-building Day Out

by marginaliana



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Good Omens Prompt Meme, extremely silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 13:19:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19702186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: After the Apocalypse fucks up, Heaven and Hell decide to improve relations with one another. After all, it may be them both against the humans next. The Lord helps, in Her own way.





	The First Annual Ethereal Entities Team-building Day Out

It is a hot day, in a garden. Along one wall is a line of tables, shaded from the sun by a few fruit trees. Pear, pomegranate, peach. No apples. There are red plaid tablecloths on the tables and cakes atop those, but a thin swag of ribbon marks them as off-limits, for now. Someone will probably make an attempt to steal one soon, given the company. 

Down at one end of the tables there is a square area that has been set with a bowl of punch and a jug of lemonade. There is a little sign that says 'Welcome To The First Annual Ethereal Entities Team-building Day Out.' [1]

A stack of glasses forms a glittering tower next to the sign. The liquids stay cool until poured. Flies meander above, seeming fascinated by the jeweled colors of the drinks, but a barrier keeps them from diving in. Still, Michael gives Beelzebub a sharp look.

"Can't you keep those things under control?" she says.

"Zzzthey have mindzzz of their own."

Michael raises an eyebrow. "I should have thought your side didn't like that sort of situation."

"Nnnno more than your zzzside doezz. But nonethelezzzz." Beelzebub waves a hand at the flies, a distinct shooing gesture. The flies form into the shape of a hand with an extended middle finger.

"Ah," says Michael. 

"You zzee what I muzzt put up with," says Beelzebub. "It izzz a terrible trial."

Michael can imagine it would be. "The bluejays aren't nearly as bad," she says. "But they do peck. My towers are always pockmarked."

Beelzebub tilts her head back and regards Michael with a speculative look. "I don't zzuppoze you've heard of thizzz thing we invented a while back. It'zzz called 'laminate.'"

* * *

The center of the garden is a long stretch of lawn, a rectangular section of it marked off with neat lines of white flowers. At one corner is a thin stick of a tree upon which is hung a wooden sign. The sign says:

> Wheelbarrow race – 1:00 (?) pm (??)  
>  Egg and spoon – 1:30 pm  
>  Sack race – 2:00 pm  
>  Prizes awarded – 3:00 pm

  
The question marks have been added in by a fingertip forming a golden script. Gabriel isn't quite sure what '1:00' or 'pm' means, nor is there a clock visible anywhere. 1:00 will have to be when he decides it will be. The thought makes him perk up a little with authority.

"Start thinking about teams!" he announces, and then, "Not the usual teams, of course."

Dagon recognizes a solid bit of terror when she hears one. "Oh yes," she says, grinning. "In fact, perhaps we ought to pair you up."

* * *

“I spy, with my little eye,” Aziraphale says, “something beginning with—“

“If it’s grass or trees or flowers or the Archangel Fucking Gabriel, I’m not interested,” says Crowley. They are leaning against a low stone wall, watching the proceedings with a mix of emotions. “Aren’t you tired of this game yet?”

“Have you got anything better to suggest?” Aziraphale asks. “Can you come up with even one single thing?”

Crowley sulks, sulkingly.

“I offered to do a magic show and She said no, which of course is Her right, even though it would have been a jolly good time, I think.” Aziraphale is working himself up to a froth; Crowley watches carefully in case he needs a leg up into it. An Aziraphale froth is a fine thing to witness. A work of art that would put that bloody Sistine Chapel to shame. “And now,” Aziraphale continues, “I have to sit here and not eat cake and watch _my boss_ attempt to _be pals_ with a demon—"

"We're pals," Crowley points out. 

Aziraphale gives him a very strong look. "We are not," he says, " _pals_."

Crowley swallows and looks away. That could mean almost anything.

"Really, Crowley," Aziraphale says. This time it's soft. Crowley turns back and discovers Aziraphale regarding him with a new look. This one means, very clearly, 'you are an idiot.' 

"All right, honeybunch," Crowley says, feeling much better. "You should have just said you wanted to be bosom buddies. Shall I braid your hair?"

* * *

Hastur and Ligur easily take the wheelbarrow race, to the surprise of no one but themselves. They ought not to have been paired up together, but Hastur's joy at seeing Ligur restored to life means no one protests the bending of the rules. 

An obscure angel and demon pairing wins the egg and spoon race, achieving a brief moment of fame. A shared glance between them establishes their desire to prolong it as far as possible. For the demon, this is pride and avarice. For the angel, it's a wholly pure intent to provide a good role model for others. Teamwork, after all, is a virtue.

The sack race… well. With Gabriel cheering from the sidelines [2], none of the pairs makes it more than halfway across the course. Dagon decides they ought to award the prize to the team with the fewest broken bones and Gabriel, with thoughts in his mind of strength under pressure, agrees immediately. The winners will have to hobble up the podium, but that will only prove them even more worthy.

* * *

Crowley pushes his way through the crowd, watching them part before him with an intense satisfaction. He's gained a reputation now, and needs only the barest of scowls to maintain it. He takes in the cake selection at a glance and cuts a large [3] slice of pear upside-down cake, topped with a whipped cream icing that hasn't melted in the heat. Two forks, of course, though one of them will probably see only a single bite.

He returns to Aziraphale with the cake in one hand and a glass of punch in the other. Aziraphale beams, setting the plate down on the top of the stone wall and taking a solid sip of the punch. He rears back as the alcohol hits and looks at the sky. "Really, Lord, I can't think this will be good for inter-alignment relations."

Crowley coughs. "I perhaps added a little something to yours."

Aziraphale tips his head down, then up again. "Oh Lord, please forgive my doubts," he says. Crowley sniggers. "And please forgive this demon for being an ass."

"I'll drink that punch if you don't want it," Crowley says. Aziraphale grins at him and moves the glass to his other hand, out of reach. 

"Don't try to tempt me to wrath, you wily thing," Aziraphale says. 

"Drat," says Crowley, snapping his fingers. "Guess I'll have to stick with gluttony."

"It's not gluttony," Aziraphale says, setting down the punch and picking up the plate. "It's an appreciation of Her holy gifts." He takes a bite of cake and makes an obscene noise of pleasure.

"Oh, well, in that case," Crowley says. "Let me know when you want another."

* * *

The podium for presentation of awards is half rotted away, but miraculously does not break as each team climbs up to be presented with its award. Gabriel's handshake of congratulations is crushingly painful but, the sack race winners agree, less painful than his attempts at cheerleading.

Dagon hands them each a tarnished trophy which nonetheless gleams in the sunlight. The bottoms of the trophies are inscribed with their names and the event they've won [4].

After presenting the awards, Gabriel pulls out a piece of parchment with his pre-written speech. "I'd like to thank you all for coming," he begins, but gets no further as the podium crumbles and sends him crashing to the ground. All the demons break into laughter; so do some of the angels.

"Yes, well," Gabriel says, standing up and dusting himself off. "It's wonderful to see that we can share a sense of humor even now." He gives an entirely insincere chuckle. Sandalphon beside him is scowling fiercely at Dagon, who has raised her hands in a gesture of innocence.

Crowley, at the back of the crowd, begins to clap. "Excellent speech," he calls. "Great work." His tone is just convincing enough that the others start clapping as well, and soon there's the cheerful cacophony that signals the end of an event. Even Gabriel gets caught up in the mood and he forgets about his speech; Dagon slides it lightly out of his hand, crumples it into a ball, and eats it.

* * *

After the applause the groups drift apart, some back into the usual knots of angels only and demons only. But there are a few mixed groups, whereas before there had been none. Against a stone wall, Aziraphale is eating another slice of cake. Crowley has a glass of punch that is 90% alcohol, and his sunglasses are folded up, hooked into the vee of his shirt. 

Michael and Beelzebub are experimenting with trying to persuade the flies to spell out words – psalms in one case, dirty limericks in the other. 

Gabriel looks out across the garden and beams. Sandalphon leans subtly against his side. 

Lucifer is, and has been, notably absent.

It's a hot day, but a good day, in a garden.

**Author's Note:**

> [1] It's written in Comic Sans. Two guesses as to which side made the sign. [back]  
>   
> [2] Sandalphon conjurs him eight pairs of pom poms. [back]  
>   
> [3] Enormous. Tremendous. And every other kind of -ous. [back]  
>   
> [4] It's written in Comic Sans. Although one side had made the trophies, it was the other that had made the table sign. Both sides have claimed responsibility for the existence of Comic Sans. Which is, as Crowley occasionally observed, just bloody typical. [back]  
> 


End file.
